The Red Hood and the Big Bad Wolf
by ThunderClouds7
Summary: When Stiles, a bandit by the name of the Red Hood, is finally captured by the kingdom's guard, he has two choices: either rot away in the dungeon or go on a perilous quest to take out the Big Bad Wolf.


_A/N - I wrote this when I should've been working on my creative writing dissertation lmao. How is it that I can write a 6k fanfiction oneshot in 2 days yet I only managed to write about 4k on my dissertation in like two months? Anyways enjoy!_

The Red Hood and the Big Bad Wolf

Stiles Stilinski sat atop his horse in the deep shadows of the forest, the hood of his dark red cloak pulled up to hide his face, the color matching the dense leaves of the trees around him. Sydon stood stalk still, like he had been taught to, and the two of them were invisible from the wide dirt road that cleaved through the forest not ten yards from them.

The sound of rattling wheels and hoof beats came up the road towards him, and Stiles drew an arrow from the quiver on his back, gently laying it across the recurve boat that sat in his lap. A wagon appeared out of the trees, an elegant design of lacquered wood and gold filigree, the horses pulling it forward sleek, black creatures. Armor gleamed beneath the driver's cloak.

Stiles stood up smoothly in his stirrups, drawing the bowstring back, sighting, and firing. The arrow, nearly invisible, leapt through the air and struck the driver, pinning his arm to the carriage and ripping the reins from his hands. As soon as the arrow left the bowstring, Stiles' horse was already moving forward, out of the trees and into the road, Stiles putting another arrow to his bow just as quickly.

"I'd stop right there, if I were you," he said.

The horses, sensing that no one was in control of them any more, plodded to a stop as their driver cursed and struggled with the arrow in his arm. Not a second later, the window shutters came down and a balding head poked out, bushy brows furrowed. "What is the meaning of this? Why are we stopped?" His voice was high pitched and wheezy.

"A highway robbery, good sir," Stiles said, tapping his heels so that Sydon stepped closer to the carriage. "I'll be relieving you of your gold and valuables."

The bald man's eyes narrowed. "You're the Red Hood."

"The one and only. Your gold, please."

"And if I decline?"

"You don't want to do that." Stiles smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

But the bald man – the kingdom's tax collector – withdrew his head into the carriage and closed up the window shutters. Stiles sighed. Another one of those. He swung down from his horse, leaving his bow across the pommel, and sauntered towards the carriage window, his dark red cloak billowing around his legs. He knocked on wooden shutters with the end of his dagger hilt. "Yoo-hoo. Is anybody home?"

He yanked the door open before the tax collector got the chance to answer, and he found the man inside, quivering, about to jump out the other door with a wooden box clutched to his chest. The man squeaked when he saw Stiles and scrambled to escape, but Stiles lunged forward, seized the edge of the man's tunic, and yanked him out of the carriage, throwing him to the ground. He put his boot on the tax collector's chest, keeping him there.

"I'll be taking this." Stiles stooped and pried the box out of the bald man's hands.

"You won't get away with this."

"That's what they all say." He snapped his fist down and punched the tax collector in the face, knocking him out cold. He put about a quarter of his strength into the blow. What a weakling.

"Set the box down and put your hands in the air," said a new voice from behind, strained with pain.

Stiles turned slowly, an eyebrow raised though he knew the expression couldn't be seen beneath his hood. The driver stood there, pointing a crossbow at Stiles with his uninjured arm. His other hand was painted red.

"I think I'll pass up on that offer, but if you want to come find me later, I'm sure we could come to some kind of arrangement." Stiles winked and pecked a kiss in the driver's direction.

The driver fired the crossbow in answer to his proposition. Stiles ducked, perhaps moving faster than should be possible, and the driver's eyes widened as the bolt went right over Stiles' head, and Stiles shot forward, still bent low, as the driver struggled to reload his crossbow. Stiles swept the man's legs out from under him. The man hit the ground with a thud, and before he knew what was happening, Stiles brought the wooden chest down on his head.

Stiles huffed out a breath as he stood up. Goddamn lawful types. He relieved the driver of his crossbow, bolts, chainmail, boots, and sword, and stripped all of the clothes off of the tax collector, then tied everything into a bundle and tossed it across Sydon's flanks. "A good haul, boy," he said.

Sydon whickered.

Stiles swung back into saddle, allowing a smile to cross his face. The sun hit the leaves of the trees just right so that they turned a deep, blood red color, the moss green trunks a soft accent. The sky overhead had just a few fluffy clouds floating along, and two slither dragons danced around each other lazily. Stiles took his loot and disappeared back into the forest, urging Sydon onto a hidden trail between the trees.

It took about an hour of gentle riding to get back to his lair, a small cabin built in the branches of a sprawling oak. He slung the loot across his back along with his bow, led Sydon to his lean-to, and then climbed up the ladder into his treehouse, already dreaming of the liberated chocolate cake he had stored in a cabinet.

A pair of boots met his eyes before he could crawl off the ladder and stand up. "Hello, Scott," he said, dropping his bundle to the ground and straightening.

His former best friend stood there, arms folded, a stern expression on his puppy dog face. A dark curl flopped across his forehead, a dimple in his cheek even though he wasn't smiling. His navy cloak was pristine, the chainmail poking out from beneath his tunic gleaming. The kingdom's sigil emblazoned the front of his tunic – a stag with one foot raised and a crown looped around its antlers. A sword hung from Scott's belt, and he wore polished bracers on his forearms and greaves on his shins.

"Stiles," Scott said. "Or should I call you Red Hood now?"

"Either is fine." Stiles smirked at him. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"You know why I'm here."

"I really don't."

Scott let out a long suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, the leather of his gloves supple and unscarred. "Why must you do this every time, Stiles?"

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Stiles asked.

"Do we really have to?" Scott tried to make his eyes as large as he could, obviously hoping to sway Stiles, but Stiles just shrugged and dropped a hand to the hilt of one of his daggers.

"You could just walk away," Stiles said quietly.

But Scott shook his head. "You know I can't do that." Then he drew his sword. It came free of its sheath with a rasp. "Last chance, Stiles."

Stiles threw back his head and laughed. "Dude, I win every time."

Scott attacked first, stamping his foot and stabbing his sword forward. Stiles locked his daggers together in an X and deflected the blade to the side, spinning as soon as the block was complete so he came around Scott's side, a dagger descending towards his former friend's shoulder. Scott caught Stiles' forearm on his own and shoved so that Stiles staggered back, bumping into the cabin wall. He ducked a second sword swing and drove his shoulder into Scott's stomach. Scott's fist and the pommel of his sword fell again and again on Stiles' back as they tumbled to the ground. Both daggers flew from his hands.

Scott wrestled him over until Stiles was pinned to the floor, but he brought his knee up into Scott's groin, though all he hit was was a metal protector. He snapped his teeth at Scott's wrist, but Scott pulled back his fist, and somehow, he had brass knuckles on his fingers, and he crashed those down into Stiles' temple. Everything went black.

* * *

Stiles woke up with shackles around his wrists and water dripping down his collar. There was a spike of pain driven deep into his skull. He sat slumped in a dark cell, the stones damp against his back, and a thin layer of straw padded his ass against the floor, only one, flickering torch illuminating the outer hall.

Stiles groaned and sat up slowly, the movement making him feel nauseous and faint. His boots, cloak, belt, and amulet were all missing, and he could tell that he had been thoroughly searched – even his hidden lock picks were gone.

He heard boots coming down the hall, and he crossed his legs casually, schooling his expression into one of disinterest. A man stopped before the cell bars. He wore a bright silver breastplate inscribed with the royal stag and a navy cloak trimmed with gold, his leather boots oiled and his grey-brown hair slicked back. "Son."

"What's up, Dad?" Stiles said with a cocky grin smeared across his lips. "Fancy seeing you here."

Captain Stilinski ignored his sarcasm and folded his arms. "What are you doing, Stiles?"

"I'm sitting here. Talking to you." Stiles shrugged. He saw his father's jaw twitch.

"You had such promise," Captain Stilinski said. The question was his broken litany. "Why did you have to throw it all away?"

Stiles gritted his teeth, holding his temper in check. How many times have the two of them had this fucking conversation? "I'm sorry I couldn't be a soulless puppet for you to order around."

"Queen McCall has decided that enough is enough. You've got two choices – either you stay down here and rot, or you go hunt down the Big Bad Wolf and bring us back his head."

The thing about his father's so called choices was that they were never really choices. It had been this way all the way back to Stiles' childhood. Stiles was tempted to say that he would stay in the cell, but he knew that in two hours, he would be climbing up the walls and dislocating his shoulders in order to squeeze through the bars.

"Fine," he spat. "I'll go kill your wolf."

Captain Stilinski nodded in satisfaction and dug into his pocket for the keys to the cell. "You've made the right choice." He unlocked the door then stepped inside, kneeling to undo Stiles' shackles as well.

"Do I get my shit back?" Stiles asks. "I'm going to need my shit if I'm going to do this."

"Language, Stiles."

"Fuck off."

Stiles watched his father's shoulders heave with a sigh as he led the way down the hall to the storage room. All of Stiles' things waited on the table, and he slid his knife belt and boots back on, replaced his hidden boot dagger, his three sets of lock picks, his garrote, his hook, and his vial of acid. He slung his quiver back over his shoulder and, finally, his dark red cloak, the weight of it comforting on his back.

"What about the gold?"

"You mean the taxes?" Captain Stilinski said, giving him a flat look.

"I mean, I went through all that effort."

"Shut up, Stiles, and follow me."

Stiles knew how to recognize a lost cause so he shut up and followed his father up through the castle and into the throne room. Queen McCall sat on her throne, resplendent in a black and blue gown, her dark hair done up with silver pearls. Ice slid down Stiles' spine at the sight of her because goddamn, she was an intimidating figure. Her son, Scott, stood beside her, the point of his sword planted on the ground and a bruise on his cheek. He gave Stiles one of his sad puppy dog looks as Stiles entered the room. Stiles glared at him.

"Mr. Stilinski," Queen McCall began. Stiles forced himself to look her in the eyes. "How long has it been?"

"Five years," he answered. Captain Stilinski nudged him in the ribs and gave him a sharp look. "Your Royal Majesty on High." His father sighed. It was all he seemed to do around Stiles.

Queen McCall nodded, eyes looking a little sad. "I've missed you."

Stiles felt his eyes mist a little bit, but he forced the tears back down. He wasn't about to admit to anyone that he missed the Queen and her son, too.

"I hear you need a Big Bad Wolf killed," Stiles said with a hand on his hip.

"Yes. He lives over the river and through the woods. Our people are too afraid to pass through his domain, so we can't travel to our neighbors in the south, and we're unable negotiate trade deals with him. We need him taken out."

"And if I do this, you'll let me go back to my life?"

Queen McCall gave him a small, sad smile, and Scott's eyes dropped to the ground. "Yes, but I hope you will decide to come back to us."

Stiles could no longer look her in the eyes.

"Here." Queen McCall held out one hand, a golden chain dangling from her fingers, the pendent on the end a green crystal. "I believe this is, well, technically it's mine, but you're going to need it."

Stiles stepped up to her and took the amulet from her hand, slipping it back over his neck, its slight weight settling against his sternum.

"And take Scott with you," Queen McCall continued. "The Wolf is dangerous."

But Stiles shook his head. "I work best alone." He paused. "Your Excellency on the Slope of the Mountain."

Queen McCall had to bite her lip to keep from smiling, and Scott snorted quietly. "Very well. Captain Stilinski will give you some supplies and then take you to your horse. Good luck, Stiles. We're counting on you."

Stiles wasn't quite sure what he thought of that, but he gave her a nod and followed his father out of the room. Scott jogged after them and grabbed Stiles' arm before he could get too far down the hall. Stiles turned back to him. Looking at Scott's face broke his heart every time, but he tried not to let it show. "What?" he asked in a voice that was a little too thick for his liking.

"I just…" Scott looked like he didn't quite know what to say. "Be safe, okay? And come back to us."

Stiles nodded and clapped Scott on the shoulder. "Don't worry. Who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?" He smirked and winked, and after a moment's hesitation, he leaned forward and gave Scott a quick, one-armed hug. Scott still smelled like sandalwood and cinnamon. Stiles had missed that scent.

Before he could lose his composure, he broke away and hurried after his father, wrapping himself up in his cloak. Captain Stilinski loaded him up with a week's worth of food, a tent and bedroll, survival supplies, and even a little bit of gold, and then he led Stiles out of the castle to the stables where Sydon was stabled.

"I remember giving you this horse when you were thirteen," Captain Stilinski said, rubbing his hand down Sydon's neck. "He bucked you off the second you climbed into the saddle."

"And look at us now," Stiles said in a quiet voice.

"Do I get a hug, too?" the captain asked.

Stiles nodded. "I suppose so."

And so his dad wrapped him up in the tightest hug Stiles had ever been a part off. He let his head fall into Captain Stilinski's shoulder, smelling the musk of his pinewood cologne, feeling the press of the breastplate's edges against his ribs. "Come back alive or I'll fucking kill you."

"I'd like to point out the irony of that statement."

Captain Stilinski squeezed him harder so that his back cracked, and Stiles yelped.

After that, Stiles secured his supplies and hoisted himself into Sydon's saddle, and without another word, he tapped his heels to his horse's sides and set off down the road.

Stiles loved travelling. There was something peaceful about it – just him and his thoughts and the sprawling landscape all around him. Today, the sky had a purplish tint to it, and both the sun and the moon were in the open at the same time, the sun a few times brighter than the crescent moon.

He moved off the road and into the woods – he'd always preferred traveling off road than on the well worn trail. It was quiet within the forest, most of the song birds sleeping this time of day. To the outside observer, Stiles' form would have flickered in and out of focus, his cloak melding with the matching leaves.

It took him two days to reach the river, and he followed it along until he found a bridge across, the blue-white water churning beneath Sydon's hooves, yellow-black fish leaping in and out of the current. The forest on this side of the river was older, colder, and harsher. The trees had gnarled, moss-green trunks, and their red leaves were as large as his horse's head. The underbrush had choked and died long ago due to lake of sun, the branches overhead woven too tightly to allow much light through. No birds sang, and only the occasional flying squirrel or purple-spotted mouse darted through the trees.

No one knew the exact location of the Big Bad Wolf's lair, just that it was somewhere in these woods. Few people had seen the Wolf and lived. They say he had glowing red eyes and claws long enough to rip a person's stomach open.

Stiles travelled through the woods for another three days before he finally came across a sign of the Wolf – five claw marks gouged into a tree trunk. After that, it wasn't hard to track the Wolf back to his lair. He found footprints and snares and trails that were more well worn than the ones he had previously been following. At dusk on the third day, with the sound of crickets all around him, he found a small cabin tucked in between three oak trees.

He was surprised by how clean it all was – the walls were free of dirt, and there was a neatly tended garden, wind chimes hanging from the eaves, and flowerpots in the windows. Not a single sign of a bone pile, mass grave, or bloodstain.

Stiles took Sydon downwind and left him there, not needing to loop the reins around anything to keep the horse from straying, and then he crept back to the cabin with his red hood pulled all the way over his head. All the curtains were drawn, so he couldn't tell if anyone was home, but he picked the lock on a back window and gently eased it open. The scent of lemon wafted over his face.

Quietly, he hefted himself up and in and tumbled inside, landing with a barely audible thump on the floor. He winced at even that small sound – the Wolf was supposed to have impeccable hearing. He ghosted deeper into the cabin, the wood clean and warm all around him, and he stepped out of the hallway and into the living room.

A man sat in an armchair by the window, reading a book, not even looking surprised at Stiles' sudden entrance. He had inky black hair and a brush of stubble across his face and chin which made his already prominent cheekbones even sharper. His eyes were an oddly beautiful grey-green color, and they zeroed in on Stiles without blinking. His shoulders and arms stretched at the fabric of his light cotton shirt, and even though he was sitting, Stiles could tell that his torso tapered down to a narrow waist.

"Can I help you?" the man said.

The amulet around Stiles' neck gave him a brief flash of the man's true face. "My, what large ears you have," Stiles said, walking slowly towards the man.

The man shut his book and set it down. "All the better to hear intruders with."

"And what bright eyes you have." Stiles roamed around the edge of the room, each man watching the other.

"All the better to see you with." The man unfolded his legs.

"And what big teeth you have."

The man stood slowly, unfolding himself from the chair until he reached his full height, a few inches taller than Stiles. "All the better to eat you with, I suppose." He sounded so bored about the whole prospect.

"You don't even want to know who I am?" Stiles asked. "Or why I'm here?"

"You're the Red Hood, and you were sent here to kill me." Again, the bored tone.

"Queen's orders."

"Aren't you supposed to be the rebel?" the man asked, but Stiles could give an answer, the Wolf sprang forward, claws out, face transformed into a heavy-browed, snarling visage, the ears pointed, and the eyes glowing bright red.

Stiles ripped his daggers free, but even with his amulet-enhanced speed, the Wolf was still faster, and his claws ripped through Stiles' tunic and into his skin. Stiles staggered back, astonished. He recovered quickly and lashed out with both daggers, one blade catching the Wolf's arm and the other grabbing only air.

The Wolf hissed in pain, but already, the wound in his arm was closing up. Stiles pressed forward – he couldn't let the Wolf get the drop on him again. He stabbed once, twice, spun so that his cloak whipped up into the Wolf's face, and then he stabbed again, knife driving in deep to the Wolf's stomach. Shit, he should've laced the blade with wolfsbane or something.

The Wolf seized Stiles' wrist, claws digging in deep so that he was forced to let go of his dagger with a yell of pain. The Wolf tore the blade out, hissing, and tossed it away. "You're good, kid, I'll give you that," the Wolf said.

Stiles' mouth dropped open. "Kid? We're the same age!"

He slid his vial of acid from his belt, uncorking it with one thumb, and flung it in the Wolf's face without warning, and the liquid hit dead center. The Wolf reared back, shrieking, hands flying to his face, smoke billowing out from between his fingers. When he finally dropped his hands, the flesh had been eaten away to reveal the muscles and tendons. Stiles was amazed that even as he watched, the Wolf began to heal.

But he had a small advantage, and he needed to use it. He slammed his knife into the Wolf's chest and whipped out his garrote, sliding under one of the Wolf's flailing arms to loop the wire around his neck and pull on it from behind, leaning all his weight into it.

The Wolf made a strangled choking sound and clawed at the wire, driving back with his legs so that they both slammed into the nearest wall. All the breath left Stiles' lungs in a rush, but he hung on. The Wolf's sharp talons tore open his cheek, barely missing his eye, and the two of them fell to the ground.

In the tumble, Stiles lost hold of his garrote, and the Wolf tore it away along with the dagger in his chest, flipping them both over so that he was on top, his glowing red eyes glaring down into Stiles' face. Stiles realized then just how sharp the Wolf's teeth were and how angry his face was. There was death in that gaze.

"What were you reading?" Stiles asked, though it came out more like a whisper.

The Wolf paused with his teeth bared and ready to tear Stiles' throat out. "What?"

"What book were you reading when I came in?" Stiles didn't know why he was asking the Wolf this when his death was literally staring him in the face.

" _The Tale of the Three-Toed Lion._ "

"That was one of my favorites as a kid. My dad used to read it to me before bed." Stiles smiled softly at the memory. A lifetime ago.

The Wolf sat back a smidge. "Are we really talking about a book right now?"

"Right. Sorry." Stiles shook his head. "Please continue to try and kill me."

The Wolf rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. "No. You've ruined the moment now." He climbed off Stiles with a huff, his thick wolf's face melting away and leaving the handsome one behind.

"It's a skill of mine," Stiles said. "Ruining things."

"I can tell." The Wolf stuck out his hand and helped Stiles stand, a faint smile playing at the edges of his mouth. "My name is Derek."

"Stiles."

"You're the Captain of the Guard's son."

Stiles' brow furrowed. "I – yeah. How did you know?"

"I haven't always lived in this cabin like a hermit," Derek said.

Stiles laughed, the smirk lingering on his lips after the sound died away. "You know, technically, the Queen told me to 'take the Big Bad Wolf out' so," he paused to let the grin grow a little larger, "want to go out to dinner with me?"

Derek looked a little taken aback, but then he smiled at Stiles. "You're buying, since you did just try to kill me."

"I would've won that fight," Stiles said as he gathered his scattered knives and garrote. "I had you on the ropes."

Derek's brow furrowed, but he threw a black half-cloak over his shoulders and led the way to the door. "You were on your back. I was about to slit your throat."

"I had you right where I wanted him."

Derek reached out without looking and gave Stiles a hard enough shove that he slammed into the wall.

The two of them went out to dinner at the Boar's Dancing Leg. The bar was a wide, spacious room, lit with white candles everywhere, the wood glowing and the chairs nearly all full. Derek and Stiles took a table at the back, and the candlelight gleamed off Derek cheekbones, darkening the black of his hair and stubble. Stiles had to stare at him for a moment, speechless.

"See something you like?" Derek eyes.

Stiles turned bright red.

"You move fast for a human. How did you do that?" Derek asked. He sat, leaning forward, with one hand under his chin.

Stiles slipped the green amulet out from under his shirt. "This is the Amulet of Trimek. It amplifies my reflexes and speed."

"So that's why you're so successful as a bandit. You cheat," Derek said.

"I like to think it's also partially my dazzling personality."

Derek lifted an eyebrow, and he somehow managed to fit a thousand words into that expression.

They stayed in that restaurant for hours, until they were the last ones there and the evening had turned to the dark of night. They had appetizers, dinner, desserts, and enough drinks that Stiles found himself inebriated, stumbling when he tried to stand. Derek grabbed him under the arm with a laugh. "Alright there?"

"You have very firm muscles," Stiles slurred.

Derek had to help him up onto his horse, and when it became obvious that Sitles wasn't going to able to hold his seat, Derek swung up behind him, leading his own horse along by a rope. His chest was very warm against Stiles back. Holy shit, it was like sitting before a fire.

They returned to Derek's cabin in the woods, and Stiles had sobered up a little bit by the time he slid down from the horse, though the world was still a warm place and every leap seemed easier to take. He pressed himself up to Derek's back as they walked through the door and whispered in his ear. "Are you big and bad in the bedroom, too?"

Derek choked, half with laughter, half with surprise, and then he turned around, picked Stiles up by the hips so that Stiles' legs were wrapped around his waist, and carried him into the bedroom.

* * *

Stiles stayed with Derek in his cabin for a week, and it was, honestly, the best week of his life. At the castle, there was always something out of sync between him and his father, him and the guard he was supposed to be working for, him and the Queen. Him and just about everyone, really. He would be told to go right, and all he wanted to do was go left. It left him on edge at the end of every day.

"Why did you leave?" Derek asked him one morning when they were lying in bed, their clothes strewn across the floor all around them.

"It was the morning of my swearing in ceremony to the Royal Guard," Stiles said, staring up at the ceiling. "There was a little girl crying, no sign of her parents. I wanted to stop and help, but Aiden, who was escorting me to the ceremony, said we couldn't – there was no time. So I stopped right there in the street, and I left. I still don't think my father has forgiven me for 'abandoning my post' as he puts it."

Derek made a low sound in the back of his throat and threaded his fingers through Stiles.

"Speaking of my father, he's probably starting to worry about me. He'll come looking for me soon. I should be heading back to the castle."

Immediately, Derek lifted himself up and flopped back down so that his entire weight fell on top of Stiles. "No. You're not allowed to."

"You didn't let me finish," Stiles wheezed. "I was going to say that you should come, too."

Derek propped himself up on his elbows so he could look down at Stiles, eyes bright, smiling. "Really? You want me to come?" He hesitated, the smile dropping away. "Are you sure that's a good idea? You were sent to kill me."

"Of course it's a good idea. You can't be a hermit in the woods forever."

Stiles had never seen a smile brighter than the one that came over Derek's face at his words, and so the next day, they gathered their supplies and set off back towards the castle. Through the woods and over the river. Rain pattered down on their heads for most of the journey, and the river, when they reached it, was swollen, the water nearly swallowing up the bridge.

The town and castle appeared down the road while they were soaked to the bone and exhausted from being unable to sleep properly for the past three nights, but at the sight of it the weight was lifted from their shoulders. Stiles tossed his hood down as he approached the guard at the gate. "I need to see my father," he said.

All the guards working in and around the castle recognized him since he'd been either training with them or running around getting under their feet since he was a child. The guard at the gate had dark brown hair spun up into a bun on top of her head, cheeks pink from the sun, and she smiled up at him as he approached. "Stiles! You're back."

"Hi, Allison."

She leaned around him so she could peer curiously at Derek atop his black horse. "Who is this?"

"My friend, Derek. Do you know where my father is?"

"I think he's with Queen McCall. Will you tell Scott I'll be waiting for him at the Keg End after my shift?"

"Sure thing." Stiles nodded to Derek, and the two of them rode past Allison and into the city. It didn't take long to wind their way to the castle at the center, and as soon as the guards at the doors recognized Stiles' face, they let him pass, though they did give his red cloak a few sour looks.

Stiles swept into the throne room before the courtier had the chance to announce him and walked right up to where his father and the Queen were discussing something in lowered voices, Scott standing on guard a few feet away. Captain Stilinski looked up at the sound of Stiles' boots, and a relieved smile spread across his face. "Stiles – I was just about to send out a search party."

Stiles stopped before them, Derek hiding a few steps behind him. He didn't bother to bow. "I did as you asked. I took the Big Bad Wolf out." He had to work to keep the grin off his face and resist looking back at Derek.

Captain Stilinski beamed at him and stepped forward to clap him on the shoulder. "Well done, son. I'm so proud of you."

Stiles shook his head. "People keep preventing me from finishing. It really is quite rude. I was going to say that I took the Big Bad Wolf out to dinner."

Captain Stilinski's, Queen McCall's, and Scott's faces went blank, though a moment later, Scott had to cover a snorting laugh with his hand. "You what?" Captain Stilinski asked.

Stiles reached back and pulled Derek forward. "This is Derek. He's your Big Bad Wolf." He turned to wink at Derek. "In more than one way."

Scott choked on his laughter and turned beet red, turning his head away so that the captain and queen wouldn't see him chortling.

"Hello," Derek said. He waved awkwardly. "Sorry for causing so much trouble. People are afraid of what they don't understand." He gave both the captain and the queen pointed looks as he said this.

Queen McCall had the decency to turn a little red.

"Only you, Stiles," Captain Stilinski sighed, though Stiles could hear a smidge of amusement in his voice. "Only you."

Queen McCall stood up from her throne and glided down the steps towards Stiles and Derek, holding out her hand to Derek. The Wolf took it, but he didn't quite look like he knew what to do with it, so he just kind of held it for a second before letting it go. "Derek, welcome to Bay Town. You're most welcome here. I apologize for trying to have you killed."

Derek smiled at her. "Don't worry. It's not the first time it's happened to me."

As Derek and the queen continued to talk, Scott sidled up to Stiles and pulled him to the side. "Holy shit, Stiles. That is the most good-looking man I have every seen."

Stiles winked at him. "Don't touch him. He's mine."

"Don't worry," Scott said with a laugh, lifting up his hands. "I'm happy with Allison." He paused, biting his lip. "Does this mean you're back for good?"

Stiles shrugged. "I don't know, man."

"I hope you do," Scott said. "Allison and I are getting married in the fall. I want you to be my best man."

Stiles beamed at Scott, one of the first proper smiles he had mustered inside the castle walls in five years. "Congrats, Scott! Really, I mean it. I promise I'll be at your wedding."

Captain Stilinski took Stiles and Derek to their rooms for the night – the same rooms that Stiles lived in as a child. His chest of toys was still there along with his array of practice weapons, all organized much more neatly than they had been when Stiles left five years ago. "Stiles," Captain Stilinski said before he shut the door. Stiles turned back to him. "I hope you decide to stay. Both of you."

The door shut with a thud, leaving Stiles and Derek alone. "The queen is nicer than I expected," Derek said, dropping himself into a chair.

"She's pretty cool," Stiles agreed.

"What are you thinking?" Derek asked. "Do you want to stay?"

Stiles shrugged. "We could…" This time, Derek knew well enough to wait for him to finish speaking. "But the Red Hood and the Big Bad Wolf is a pretty good bandit team name, don't you think?"

Derek grinned, and, taking all the gold they could find in the four nearest rooms, the two of them skedaddled out the window.


End file.
